


What Darkness Erases

by twisteddixon (thepecolns)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, can be read as missing moments between episodes, just with a strong Caryl AU, set directly after 3x02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1541903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepecolns/pseuds/twisteddixon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl prefers the darkness, even when it unsettles him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

He knows he should just _ask_. 

While everyone is piling into Hershel's tiny cell, watching him open his eyes and reach out for his family, Daryl only has one thing on his mind: Carol - and where the hell she's disappeared to. 

When Lori runs off and Rick follows her, Daryl takes it as his own personal cue to leave them to it. He's glad Hershel doesn't need a bullet to the head, but the man only has _one foot_. _The hell’s he gonna do now_? 

Daryl pushes the nuisance away and walks the short distance to a cell his gaze repeatedly drifted to during last night's watch. All he can think about is _her_. He knows she won't be there, but he still stands in the doorway of the cell she shares with Lori and feels his lips mash into a thin line. 

He knows he should just ask. 

So he turns, thinking he's about to pull one of them aside and nearly tramples Carl who is hovering nearby. He grunts out about watching where he's going, and moves on. 

"She's outside." 

The words freeze him for a moment or two, the same way a walker does. _She's out there alone_? he wants to ask, but instead he glances over his shoulder and says, 

" _What_?" 

"Carol. She went outside with Glenn earlier," the boy replies quickly as though he _knows_ what Daryl is thinking, and he realises even the kid has caught on. He's almost certain it will dwell in his thoughts later, when he's keeping watch and trying not to look at her cell again. 

Right now, there's no room for it in his mind as he's doing his best not to break into a run while he passes the group – passes _Glenn_ – still lingering ahead of him. It doesn't take long to get outside and soon he's shielding his eyes from the glaring sun to scan the fences. 

He spots her pretty quick; crouched on the floor by the watchtower they started out by. The damned racing of his heart slows a little before he sees what she’s crouching over and he’s moving again before he’s really aware. 

If his reaction is anything to go by, he’s sure this will go on the long list of things to mull over in those brief moments of respite. It’s unbidden, unwanted, but it hovers over him anyway because there’s nothing he can do to avoid it. 

Rick, Glenn, Hershel…they all have loved ones to protect, the people they automatically look for when shit turns bad. Even when the others are in danger, there’s that instant, subconscious thought of, _where are they? are they safe_? – and he know this because it’s Carol he looks for every time. 

But he’s closing in on her, and he decides that if he can’t avoid it, he’ll simply ignore it for a little while longer. 

He’s only a few metres away when he pauses and watches her slice open the walker’s midriff. It’s enough to turn a stomach, even his, and it’s clear in the set of her shoulders that it’s taking a lot to persevere. 

She gets about halfway across when she pulls the knife away, and he figures it’s a good a time as any to announce his presence. 

“What you _doin’_?” 

She starts and meets his gaze over her shoulder. He moves closer, nudging the walker’s head as he passes because despite the bloody hole in its left eye, Daryl still has the urge to shoot an arrow through its skull. But his crossbow remains firmly on his back, and instead, he crouches down beside her, their arms brushing momentarily. 

“I'm practicing for when Lori…” She leaves the sentence hanging, and he grimaces. Even he wouldn’t think to suggest a walker as practice. “With Hershel down, I’m going to need all the experience I can get.” 

Carol raises the non-bloody part of her wrist to her forehead, from stress, or heat, he can't really tell. This is her responsibility, he realises, just as protecting the group and hunting for food is his. 

He watches her unguardedly as she shuts her eyes for a couple of seconds. When she opens them again, she has the knife ready for another attempt, and it's then that Daryl knows he would rather take on a herd of walkers than have to face the task of delivering Lori's baby. 

“Watch you don’t cut into the stomach,” he says, remembering all too well what that looked like. “It ain’t pretty, trust me.” 

She looks up, disgust marring her face. “You’ve done that?” 

The question is straightforward enough, and in any other situation, he’d shrug and leave it at that…but he can’t. He literally cannot force his shoulders into the noncommittal reaction for there’s another, much older response in his mind already. 

“ _We cut the son of a bitch open._ ” 

Briefly, he wonders how this particular memory has faded for her when it’s so easy for him to recall. It dawns on him eventually, that like the moment her daughter stepped out of the barn, there’s probably only one thing Carol remembers about that day on the highway. 

Sophia running, and two walkers following right after. 

He doesn’t reveal this, given that the distance her name creates is ten times worse than the gore he warned her about, and neither of them needs that melancholic distraction. So the shrug comes without difficulty and she accepts it, going back to her task. 

They work in silence after that, or rather Carol works while Daryl gets up and knifes the walkers eyeing them through the fence. She finishes up before he does, and stretches her sore shoulder when she thinks he’s not looking. He turns as she lowers her arms, quietly deciding whether to comment on it. 

It takes only a second to decide because, well, he’s not quite ready to go inside yet. 

“Your shoulder still hurtin’?” 

“At times,” she replies vaguely, but the subtle roll of the joint tells him it’s more than that. He quickly reminds himself to check her positioning next time she’s holding the rifle. “Your massage helped, though.” 

His eyes narrow, catching the twitch of her lips as she suppresses a smile. “That supposed to be a hint?” 

She laughs at that, reminding him of the night before when she asked if he wanted to screw around. 

He follows when she turns, staying a few steps behind. Last night he told her to stop when she joked about checking him out, and yet, now the tables have turned he can’t take his eyes off her. 

Hell, he’s beginning to wish this strip were just a little bit longer… 

He’s so preoccupied by such a thought that when she comes to an abrupt stop and spins around, they collide in a mess of limbs. It happens so quickly that it’s all he can do to jump back from the sudden contact. A curse rises when he feels his face grow hot and _damn it_ she’s just standing there trying not to smile again. 

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she did it on purpose. 

“Would you give me another massage, if I asked?” she says, holding his gaze defiantly. He wants to turn away, to use the sun that’s already making him squint as an excuse. He doesn’t know how this flirting business works…and fuck is this tiny woman making him feel vulnerable. 

“You want one?” he manages to get out, the words mumbled even to his ears. It’s a wonder she even understands, but then, she seems to understand him better than anyone does these days. 

“Maybe later,” she replies, and then she’s disappearing inside with that damn smile of hers. Luckily, that part of the building is walker-free, and it’s a relief as right now, he simply cannot move. 

For the first time in a _long_ time, Daryl Dixon needs a moment to get his shit together. 

♦♦♦ 

The sound of a walker roaming their cellblock makes him jolt awake. 

His crossbow grates along the concrete as he grabs it and sits up in one fluid movement. Straight away, he’s aiming towards the sound, his finger hovering over the trigger. 

There’s nothing there. 

It takes only a few beats of his heart to figure out the walker was a mere figment of his imagination, and he curses himself and the stupid nightmare that woke him in the first place. 

The fuckers were getting more and more realistic every night. 

Daryl sighs and drags a hand over his face. Even though he knows the gates are locked and secure at either end, he still pulls himself up to check. Nightmare or not, it’s made him jittery as hell, and there’s no way he’ll fall asleep any time soon. 

He has checked the gates and scanned every empty cell when a voice comes from the tier above. 

“Everything all right?” 

It’s T-Dog, who took first watch, which means he can’t have slept for more than a few hours at the most. Daryl curses again, and when he finally replies, embarrassment twists his response into a far more irritable one than the guy deserves. 

“It’s _fine_. I’m gonna take the next watch.” 

Usually there’s a certain amount of _‘are you sure?’_ or _‘I can watch another hour’_ , but his voice leaves no room for argument and T-Dog is back in his cell before Daryl can get halfway to the perch. 

His irritation simmers down once he settles in for the wait. Rick usually sleeps about five hours before waking up to take over, which means he has at least three hours wait ahead of him. 

For once, he’s glad. The silence is a little disconcerting tonight, and he blames it on the way he woke up. He’d been so sure there was a walker… 

The sound of feet hitting the floor draws his attention. Without having to look, he knows it’s Carol - she’s the only one sleeping on a top bunk. He waits, his eyes trained on her cell until she steps out. 

Her first instinct is to look up and down the tier. It’s obvious she’s checking who is taking watch as a moment later she’s looking in his direction. His eyesight is better than hers is, and he can barely discern her as it is. If he doesn’t make a sound, there’s no way she’ll know if he’s even awake. 

But, of course, there is neither use nor point to hiding, and besides, he doesn’t _want_ to hide, not from her. So he makes the smallest of noises and hopes she catches it. 

“Daryl?” 

There’s a hint of fear in her voice, he’s almost certain, and he’s replying before he even knows what he wants to say. 

“I’m here.” 

Not _yeah_ , or _what_ , but a simple _I’m here_. Almost an invitation, so it shouldn’t surprise him when she starts making her way over. She’s just approaching the perch when he speaks again. 

“Why are you awake?” 

He sighs quietly. There’s irritation in his voice again and he doesn’t know why, but unlike T-Dog, she just keeps on coming. His gruffness is expected, and he’s said far worse in a fit of real anger. 

“Nightmares and claustrophobia aren’t a good mix,” she says, and yes, there’s definite fear there. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, either.” 

Daryl half goes to ask what happens in her dreams. Given that his own nightmares keep him up, it’s something he can at least relate to. 

But instead, all he can say is, “S’what you get for sleeping in a box.” 

He can recall her being claustrophobic at the CDC, too, and he wonders silently if there’s a hidden reason behind her phobia, more than the mere thought of being boxed in. Like _his_ hidden reason, he reluctantly admits. 

As soon as they arrived, the bitter reminder of his childhood had him instantly refusing the cell.  The walking dead are just another reason why Daryl Dixon will never sleep in a room with only one exit. 

The feeling of being trapped is inescapable, and it’s present in the dead of night, when the moon is shrouded and no light shines through. Even in an open area, the darkness will build its thick, black walls around you. 

They will, later, if he’s still awake. 

A welcomed distraction comes when he sees her fingers idly kneading her shoulder. It isn’t a hint, she’s not obvious enough for that, but he’s willing to take what he can get. Talk of claustrophobia and sleeping in boxes isn’t helping either of them. 

“You want that massage?” 

Her shock makes him smirk away his discomfort at proposing something she called _romantic_. 

“I ain’t gonna ask again,” he warns. The quip is light and said with a hint of humour, but damn if it isn’t also true. If she refuses, he won’t ask her again…but she doesn’t turn him down, of course she doesn’t. 

When she moves up, it’s a lot closer than he expects. In the dark, it’s really just the two of them, and the whole thing feels intimate. Maybe too intimate, yet he doesn’t back away – he started this, after all. 

The tension in her shoulder is evident. He has half a mind to tell her to relax a little, but he catches himself at the last second since he’s even tenser than she is. Gradually it eases from the both of them, and he even acknowledges that barely being able to see anything actually helps. 

It all comes crashing back when he accidentally grazes his fingers along her neck, causing a shiver to travel down her spine. 

He pulls away so quickly it’s a surprise he doesn’t jump back onto his crossbow and get an arrow in the ass for his troubles. 

Carol rights herself, returning to her original position. There’s something off, though; it’s as if she doesn’t want to meet his eye, and after being the usual victim, it takes him longer than it should to realise she’s embarrassed. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “You’re pretty good at that.” 

The whole thing has thrown him so much he doesn’t even register her compliment. All he can do is stare and think how fucked up they both must be to react so badly to touch. Before he knows it, he’s muttering out an apology and he doesn’t know why. 

It works, though. 

“What a pair we are,” she comments, and it’s not the first time their thoughts have harmonized. The embarrassment is gone from her voice, and his has faded enough for him to sit alongside her again. They remain in perfect silence, and he prefers it that way instead of creating pointless chatter the others seem to think is necessary. 

From the corner of his eye, he watches her stifle a yawn. 

“You should go back to bed.”

 Carol catches his eye, and then glances towards her cell. “What about you?” 

“I gotta wait for Rick to get up,” he says, watching her hesitate. It’s apparent she doesn’t want to move, but there’s _at least_ another hour to go, and she won’t be thanking him for it come morning. 

“I guess I could set up outside the cell,” she continues. The words are more for her than him, but he has already declined the idea in his head. There are a few reasons, the top being that once Rick’s done his usual checks he will want to settle wherever Lori is. 

Despite whatever shit they’re going through, Rick always does. 

It’s the image of Carol dragging the mattress from the top bunk that Daryl settles on, though. 

The visual makes him snort. “You’ll wake the whole damn place.” 

Maybe it’s his reaction, he muses, or the tone of his voice…whatever it is by God does it make her eyes flash and narrow. 

“So what do _you_ suggest?” she demands, and he can’t help but marvel at how she can keep her voice low, yet retain the tartness as though she’s shouting the words instead. “I haven’t seen you step a foot inside any of those cells since we got here.” 

The muscles in his hand twitch, and he curls it into a fist. He’s not angry at her, but shit, he almost he wishes he is, because the way she’s looking at him is _dangerous_. It’s the argumentative spark she has that attracts him so damn much, and it’s shining in her eyes right now. 

That, and the fact she just called him out without a second thought. 

“ _Damn it_ , lady!” he spits out with a glare. “Just sleep _here_.” 

This stiffens her. “ _What_?” 

Daryl doesn’t answer her right away as he’s asking himself the same damn question. _What the fuck_? 

“You heard.” 

 _Yeah, she fucking did_ , and that’s the problem. She blinks at him a few times, the fight fading as she actually contemplates it. At that, he petulantly looks away; irritated at himself for tactlessly offering something that makes him unsure how he should feel. 

The whole thing is made worse when he realises he’s leaning towards actually hoping she’ll agree, and he hasn’t the first clue how to absorb that. 

“Okay.” 

And that’s it. She waits to see if he has anything more to say, but he keeps his lips firmly sealed and only offers a glance. 

“Well…wake me up when Rick takes over,” she tells him, and it seems they’re back at the awkward stage again, which bothers him more than it should. He grumbles out something incoherent, still too pissed at himself to give her a definite answer. 

She doesn’t expect more, though, and when she lies down, there’s a nagging, annoying voice in his head that tells him to turn around and look at her. By now, Daryl knows his stubbornness will win out and he resolutely stares ahead until he finally hears her breathing even out into sleep. 

Another ten or so minutes pass, and he’s strangely proud of this achievement, which he stores away for future use. Eventually, once she’s effectively worked her way into his every thought, he settles for a new position of sitting perpendicular to her so he’s facing the cells to catch when Rick wakes up. 

It’s just an excuse, and he knows it. 

As soon as he allows his gaze to drift her way, it strikes him how small she looks in sleep. How her body curls inwards as though unconsciously trying to make itself as small as possible. 

The logical explanation would be the chill in the air, but Daryl knows better than that. He knows it has more to do with the life she lived before the dead started walking. 

Victims of abuse tend to make themselves as small as possible in the unlikely chance they are overlooked, and over time, they do it without thinking. Begrudgingly, Daryl notes the truth in the term _it takes one to know one_ when he spots the signs immediately. 

Similar to the first time they met…he just _knew_. 

His assumptions were proven a week later when he witnessed Ed land the back of his hand across her face. Her small cry of pain had rattled right through him, stinging him as though he’d been struck, too. 

With it, old memories had resurfaced of watching Merle knock a girl around as his younger self stood back, helpless, and it made his blood boil. Ed had caught his eye after realising there was an audience, and to this day, Daryl still doesn’t know what his expression revealed. 

Whatever Ed saw, it meant he never laid a finger on her again until that final day by the creek. Of course, the same night a walker burst into his tent and tore the worthless son of a bitch to pieces. 

Yeah, karma is a fickle bitch. 

Before then, Daryl could honestly say he’s never been glad that death had taken another. He isn’t ruthless enough for that, but his views changed when he and Shane had dragged the gory remains away to be buried. Changed to the point he’d almost looked forward to sticking a pickaxe through the guy’s brain to prevent him from ever terrorising Carol and her little girl again. 

She was the one to do it, in the end, but he still shared in her release of finally being free of her husband’s abusive restraints. 

Looking back, Daryl guesses that’s the moment he started protecting her, though it wasn’t as obvious, at first. There’s a saying that states damaged things tend to stick together, and he prefers to ignore that particular term even more than the other. 

The memory is still going around his mind when Rick wakes up an hour or so later. The break in the atmosphere is appreciated as Daryl uses it to clear his head and wait for Rick to emerge. 

When he does, his greeting is always the same. “Any changes?” 

“As quiet as ever,” Daryl replies, voice gruff from lack of use. He senses rather than sees the man nod and silence falls between the pair. 

If Rick notices Carol asleep beside him, he chooses not to remark on it, and once again Daryl is thankful the dead of night has made him blind to anything more than a metre away. 

He wants to see Rick’s reaction about as much as he wants to reveal the stupid heat that suddenly prickles beneath his cheeks. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Ricks says instead, and wanders off to check on Hershel. 

Now that he’s effectively alone again, his musings come back to the woman next to him and he faces his next dilemma. The nagging voice returns, this time teaming up with the churning of his stomach to leave him feeling uncomfortable and well out of his depths. 

She told him to wake her up once his watch was over…but with Rick in hearing distance, the thought of another late night interaction unnerves him more than the idea of sleeping beside her. The truth is he wants her to stay right there since her only other option is to return to the cell, and after everything she said, he’s in no position to force that upon her. 

If it were him, he’d sooner sleep outside than let someone force him to sleep some place he didn’t want to.

Yet as simple as the act is, he still finds himself faltering. She won’t mind, he’s certain of that. In the past few months, her makeshift bed was always next to his when they couldn’t afford the luxury of spreading out…but now things are different and he’s left sitting there like a fool because of it. 

Ultimately, it’s thoughts of the following day that have him sucking it up and laying down. Delaying it any longer means less sleep, and the last thing he wants is to wake up cursing himself, and worse yet, cursing _her_ for putting him in this position in the first place. 

He firmly keeps his back to her, though, because he’s acutely aware of their proximity, and facing her will only hinder his chances of much needed rest. It’s not long before he begins to drift off, and somewhere in the far depths of his mind, that voice is back again, quietly admitting just how much he likes this. 

♦♦♦ 

His eyes reopen to the same blanket of darkness, and his first evaluation is that nothing has changed. 

It’s when his mind readjusts that he realises it has. 

There is now a warmth against his back that somehow feels familiar; even though he’s well aware he’s never felt anything like it before. In a world so cold, this uncommon heat envelopes him, intensifying in a small patch between his shoulder blades. This, he knows, originates from the constant, soothing sound of Carol’s breathing. 

It not only surprises him that she moved, seemingly seeking comfort in his sleeping form, but that she did it without waking him. No part of her is touching him, no hand against his side or curled into the folds of his shirt, yet in the inky blackness that surrounds them, she is the only thing he feels. 

Rick, he’s certain, will have settled in front of Lori’s cell by now. The seven people sleeping nearby and the hundred other walkers Daryl knows to be roaming the prison are just as invisible. 

The darkness hides all that, masks it, erecting the walls he imagined earlier until all that is left is Carol’s warmth, which has metaphorically been seeping its way into his heart for longer than he’d probably care to admit. It’s entangled itself around his entire being, the way he supposes her body is moulded around his now. 

But how long will it stay with him when the light of day rebuilds that what darkness erases? 

He wonders over this for a while; he can’t help but. 

Will he wake first and leave her side? Will he avoid her eye all day by busying himself with other things? 

And when nighttime returns, what then? 

Will he offer his mattress, or will he stand back while gnawing his lip, silently hoping she will make the first move for him? 

The dark does not offer him these answers, but it gives him the privacy he so often craves, and that makes things just a little bit easier. 

Come tomorrow when daylight has faded once more and everyone is returning to their beds, he knows he should just ask.


	2. Day Two

The following night, Daryl opts to take first watch. It isn’t long before the rest of the group are asleep or at least on their way. Glenn and Maggie are whispering between themselves on their shared bunk, but he blocks them out and focuses on the only other person he knows to be awake. 

Some twenty minutes ago, Carol went to change Hershel’s bandages, and hasn’t come out since. Having seen her do it earlier that morning, he’s well aware the task shouldn’t take longer than a few minutes. She’s stalling, a game of which he is very familiar. 

He did the very same thing all day. 

Every time he went to ask if she wanted to sleep on the perch again, he bailed out and avoided her, which only resulted in putting him in a foul mood when she interpreted his awkwardness as a plea for space. 

Their longest interaction was her small smile when he caught her watching him. That was just before she went in to see Hershel, and had he grasped such an opportunity, he would be sitting back waiting for her to join him instead of restlessly pacing along the perch. 

Daryl tells himself he’ll catch her when she comes out, but what happens if she simply turns away is a question he can't shake. He should know better than that by now, considering how she _always_ looks. He feels her gaze on him every time he enters a room – has come to rely on it, which means catching her eye shouldn’t be a problem. 

Except tonight, it probably will.

He envisions her moving between the cells without hesitation, his tongue catching like a damn mute when she does. Or simply doing so while his back is turned and leaving him to pace wildly into the early hours. 

 _This shouldn’t be so difficult_. 

All he wants is to help ease her discomfort, and so what if he wants to help himself a little, too? The first night they slept in the cellblock, something had inexplicably been _off_ about it, and until now, Daryl put it down to the fact he was sleeping inside a secure environment for the first time in months. 

Last night made him realise just how much he has gotten used to sleeping with Carol nearby, and he doesn’t want that to change now they have a semblance of safety. He wants to fall asleep with the thought of her beside him…and in the morning, he wants to open his eyes to her warmth. 

It’s new for him, but already he’s feeling colder without it. 

That particular sentiment leads him straight in her direction. Glenn and Maggie’s cell is in the opposite direction, and he’s glad he doesn’t have to pass by with Carol on the way back. 

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

It’s still there when he pauses in Hershel’s doorway and sees Carol hunched over against the wall. He taps twice against the bars to get her attention, hoping it’s not loud enough to wake the old head. 

“You’ll do no good sleeping like that,” he says when she jolts awake. “Ain’t comfortable.” 

“True.” Carol pulls herself up and comes to lean against the doorframe, close and casual, yet intimate at the same time. “It's a good thing I know someone who has some mean massaging skills.” 

The chuckle that escapes surprises him more than the words that follow. “Gonna have to start chargin’ ya.” 

 _Oh, this won’t last_ , he knows, but enjoys the weightlessness of the moment nonetheless, before his bad traits inevitably take effect and ruin it. 

“Yeah?” She grins, tilting her head. “What do you want from me in return?” 

 _Damn_. 

This particular game of tug of war is one Daryl cannot win, and his eyes quickly divert, feet shuffling and fingers itching to fiddle with a crossbow strap that sits metres away. 

 _There they are, those traits_ , his conscience mocks, before he kicks it to the corner of his mind where it belongs. 

Carol laughs, but lets the rope fall knowing one more pull will drive him away. “So what brought you down this way? Everything okay?” 

She’s good at that, giving him a way out once she’s toed his boundaries and worked herself a little closer. 

“Well, you’re the only other person who ain’t already in bed…” 

Her smile falters, becomes a little forced. It’s disquieting to notice how their roles so suddenly reverse, and Daryl quickly regrets his words. Though the outcome is unpredictable, he much rather her press on his sensitive issues than the other way around. 

But there’s a way out for her, too. 

“You can sleep on the perch again, if ya like.” 

This time, he can’t stop his fingers from reaching for the absent strap. His hand hovers until he redirects and rubs the back of his neck. 

Now he’s said it, he’s tempted to turn and run with his tail between his legs…but then relief washes across her face, and the unusual temptation to smile back is even stronger. 

“I’ll go grab my pillow.” 

A nod is all it takes for the pair to part ways. Daryl’s gaze idles as Carol wanders off. It’s only as it sweeps back to catch when she returns that he notices something that wasn’t there before.  

Even in the dark, the smile on the old man’s face is unmistakable. 

 _Well, shit_. 

So much for not waking him up. 

Daryl hightails it back to his usual seat on the perch to avoid Hershel’s subtle display of approval. He’s seen that kind of reaction directed at Glenn and Maggie…like hell if he’s gonna receive it every time he tries to keep Carol close. 

It’s the only good thing, he supposes, about Hershel being bedridden – he can’t linger in the background, ready to catch Daryl off guard. Carol does that enough for the both of them. 

He’s slowly stopped minding, though, and he can’t deny it adds to the aspect of their relationship, or whatever it’s called, that he’s starting to enjoy. 

 _Just listen to yourself_. 

His mind aptly fixes upon Merle’s voice to speak those words, and it’s a stroke of luck Carol decides at that very moment to make her way over. A long time has passed since his older brother permeated his thoughts in such a way, and it only ever leads to something bad. 

As a result, the ghost of Merle is pushed aside, allowing Carol to take centre stage in his thoughts once again. 

“Thank you,” she says, and he doesn’t flinch when she brushes his shoulder as she passes by. 

He turns and watches her settle, feeling pretty damn good about the whole thing, which is rare but surprisingly easy to accept. She shifts around beneath her blanket, trying to find a comfortable position. Their eyes meet when she stops, her arms crossed and clutching the thin material. 

“You know, I think I might complain to the management and see if they can turn up the heat in this place.” 

The joke feels foreign now the concept no longer exists where a simple complaint can make your troubles go away. The only so-called _management_ left is _God_ , and it’s clear he ain’t doing shit about their troubles. 

He plays along, anyway. “You’ll be waitin’ a while for that one.” 

Quiet laughter seeps out as she burrows deeper into her meagre bedding, waiting for the shivering to stop. He feels the sudden compulsion to join her, remembering just how warm he was last night. 

He still gets up, and goes for his poncho instead. 

The thing doesn’t smell the best, like most of their belongings, but it’s thick and retains body heat well enough. It’ll work for now, at least until he’s able to provide her with something better, and with that, he reminds himself to talk Rick into finding the prison’s laundry room. 

For the second instance that night, his brother pops into his head. This time, he appears through a distant memory. Merle did a sixteen month stretch in a military prison for knocking some official’s teeth out. Damn fool got himself thrown into isolation for refusing to _turn pussy_ and work the laundry rotation. 

It was a different prison, but he’s sure the setup will be the same. Somewhere there has to be a goldmine of fresh sheets and clean pillows. Clothes, too, if their luck holds out.

 Until then, the poncho will have to suffice. 

Carol’s eyes flicker open as he drapes it over her, making him falter when her expression softens. 

“Won’t you need it later?” she asks, like the darned mother hen she is. 

“No,” he replies, _I have you for that_. 

♦♦♦ 

The night after, all it takes is a nod towards the perch. 

Maybe tomorrow, he won’t have to do anything at all.


	3. Day Four

**~ Day Four ~**  

Twenty-four hours after suggesting the laundry run to Rick, they are finally heading out. 

It’s just the four of them – Rick, T-Dog and Carl, who has previous knowledge of that part of the prison. Although there was little in the way of walker activity on his trip to the infirmary, Daryl and the others still check and recheck their weapons before heading out. 

There’s a sense of foreboding hanging over them, being the first time they have gone out since Hershel’s injury. Daryl’s certain the majority of it is originating from Lori, who hovers on the second tier. 

It’s clear she wants to come down and see them off, to offer last minute advice the way she used to, or maybe just hug them for what could easily be the last time… 

…except neither want it and all she gets is a swift nod from far away. 

He knows that in a world where people can fade away at any second, a distance like that is torture. He also knows there’s nothing he can do; his role is clearly defined, and offering advice isn’t the kind of support Rick needs from him. 

So Daryl diverts his gaze until it lands on Carol, who approaches without hesitation. 

“Watch out for walkers on the floor. Can’t be having anyone else coming back with half their leg missing,” she says lightly, almost joking, except her eyes betray the fear behind them. 

He already plans to check each and every body they come across, so he nods, tells her he will bring them all back in one piece – because he will, he doesn’t have any other option. 

 _She’ll still worry_ , he tells himself as they head out a minute later, quickly losing light from the cellblock. 

With T-Dog’s help, they make quick work of checking over each body they come across. There isn’t a jumpsuit in sight, which has Daryl questioning whether the prison walkers could even get through. 

“There was a gate further on from the Infirmary,” Carl tells them when Daryl voices his thoughts aloud. “It looked pretty secure.” 

“Has to be. Ain’t nowhere near enough walkers. They must’a locked this part down once guards started splittin’.” 

“Could be useful when getting to and from this laundry room,” T-Dog adds, pausing to stick a knife through the head of a woman in nurse scrubs. “Don’t suppose you happened to see where this place was the last time you came down here?” 

Carl shakes his head. “It was too dark, but I think I remember seeing some signs about laundry.” 

The four continue down the eerily quiet hallway. Daryl keeps his finger on the trigger, eyes sharp in case of stray walkers. 

It isn’t long before they arrive at the signs Carl mentioned, and they stop while T-Dog sorts through the batch of keys. 

“This might take a while,” he says, while signalling for Carl to shine the light over his hands. 

The wait leaves Daryl antsy, and soon enough he’s signalling for Rick to help him check out what awaits them round the corner, which, ultimately, turns out to be nothing. 

“Looks like that gate is the same one that leads to the other cell block,” he says, flashing his light towards the far end. “The guards did one thing right, lockin’ this part down.” 

“Maybe it wasn’t such a dangerous run for Carl after all…” 

Daryl turns his light towards Rick, catching the switch from leader to worried father. “You talked to him about that yet?”

He shakes his head, letting out a weary sigh. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment. He didn’t take it well last time, and I don’t want that happening again. I might need your backup on this one.” 

“Just give me a signal,” Daryl replies simply. 

T-Dog is still sifting through the keys when they make their return not long after. 

“Damn things need a label,” he mutters, on edge. “The hell we gonna do in a hurry?” 

“We got time,” Rick reassures him. “This section is locked up tight. No walker can get in here unless it learns how to pick locks.” 

“Like I said. It was a clear run.” 

Daryl meets Rick’s eye, sharing a subtle nod before the man turns towards his son. 

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” he begins, and within seconds, the boy’s face has closed off, mouth tight in protest. “You did a good job locating this place. Those supplies saved Hershel’s life, and we’re all grateful for that. The only problem is you went off on your own into a section we hadn’t been to.” 

“I can do this,” Carl all but interrupts, his defences rising. “I wasn’t scared.” 

“I know, and I don’t doubt that you can,” his father placates. “But…a key point of surviving in this world is making sure someone has your back, you understand that?” 

This time, Carl only nods. 

“You have to promise me next time you’ll take someone with you. If anything were to happen, we need to know where to look.” 

There’s a pause where Carl should make his promise, but instead he glances at Daryl, whether through embarrassment or anger at having an audience, he can’t tell. Daryl sure as hell knows he would feel that way if it were him in that position, probably thinking it’s about his age, too…except it isn’t, and he wants Carl to understand that just as much as Rick does. 

“Your dad’s right. We all gotta follow that rule. Hell, been days where I ain’t taken a piss without your old man knowing which way I’m goin’ in.” 

Rick exhales, amused. “That’s the truth, too, as much as I don’t need all the _finer_ details.” 

A smirk pulls at Daryl’s lips as Carl looks between them and finally agrees not to tackle new parts of the prison alone. 

Not long after, T-Dog has the gate open, and the tension the group lost in the last few minutes returns as they make their way towards the main laundry room. Daryl takes point, opening the door first with Rick at his back.

The room is a surprising contrast to the dark hallway, with its high windows filling the room with midday sun. The pair does a quick sweep, but their noses tell before their eyes do that the room is as walker free as the ones before. 

T-Dog’s low whistle halts their search. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.” 

They make their way over, between machines and presses to where the others are filtering through various piles of clothing. 

“I ain’t wearing no damn jumpsuit,” Daryl mutters as Carl lifts one up for inspection. 

Juvie, prison – that was Merle’s thing. 

“You won’t have to. We’ll find some other use for them.” 

Rick signals towards the other prison grade clothes. “There are clean sweaters, pants, socks. They’ll all come in handy.” 

Daryl nods, but doesn’t offer anything more, going for one of the trolleys instead. He barely pays attention to the things they’re adding until he spots the extra bedding and makes a point to add a whole pile. 

How he’ll trunk the spare blankets out without the rest – without _Carol_ noticing is something he’ll have to tackle later. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Rick announces, sensing the quiet is making them all a little uneasy. 

There is a definite sigh of relief as the doors clangs shut behind them. Lori is the first they see, rushing out from Hershel’s cell to assess the returning party. Whether it’s Rick or Carl she surveys first, Daryl doesn’t know. All he sees is the relief. 

Carol is nowhere in sight. 

The others slowly file into the block, their faces brightening at the sight of new clothes and clean bedding. Daryl stands back, that damned feeling tugging at his heart again, the one he’s still not quite used to. 

A year ago, he would’ve turned away by now; would’ve gone back to some corner they couldn’t find him in. Hell, a year ago he probably wouldn’t have gone with them…but then he knows that’s not exactly true. 

Merle would’ve been the one to stop him. 

Once again, he’s reminded that his brother isn’t here, Rick is, and he would’ve helped the man back then just as he does now. 

He’s pleased with himself, and for them, for what they’ve achieved. 

Gradually they separate off, Rick heading out, Carl taking a spare pillow to Hershel while the others disappear into the main hall with a couple of jumpsuits. Suddenly Daryl is alone with the cart, and he realises getting what he needs isn’t so hard after all. 

He grabs a pile of blankets, snagging an extra pillow, too, and all the while imagining Carol’s reaction as he does. Again, he wonders where she is, whether she’s outside performing her macabre dissections while everyone else is distracted. 

Daryl gets his answer as he turns for the perch. 

The sight of her nearly gives him a heart attack. 

She’s snuck up on him like a mouse, using his own techniques against him, watching and knowing exactly what he is up to. They both freeze, and Daryl is torn between dumping his findings and going after Rick, and stepping forward with like a schoolboy desperate to impress his crush, as though to say, _here, look what I brought you_. 

In the end, he does neither. Carol chooses for him by smiling privately and heading outside, innocent like, as though nothing happened. 

He relaxes for only a second before he’s cursing once again. She’ll corner him later, he’s certain of it. 

 _Damn_. 

♦♦♦ 

They barely say a word to each other for the rest of the day. 

He tenses every time one of them mentions the new bedding, catches her eye a couple of times when they do.  It dawns on him later that she’s teasing him, by toasting them for keeping the group warm at night, yet shooting a meaningful glance in his direction. 

For the rest of the evening he watches her over the rim of his glass, pondering how he’ll get her to sleep on the perch again. 

Despite everything, he still wants it more than anything. 

Though even with that desire, he still doesn’t outright ask her. Having done it twice already, he doesn’t think he has it in him to ask a third time. So he sits and waits while everyone slowly heads off to bed. 

Carol stays behind with Beth who helps tidy up. When she sends the young girl to bed, Daryl steps up to help. They work in a soothing manner, Carol washing while he dries. 

They get through the lot without a word spoken. It’s only when Carol moves onto the pile of washing, and Daryl hangs back, still waiting, that she finally speaks. 

“You don’t have to wait up for me,” she says, midway through folding one of his shirts. “I’ll be in soon.” 

He nods and admits defeat, but then leaves his keys at the last minute, knowing he’ll catch her when she goes to return them, blocking her path if he has to. He’s not below a move like that, he realises. 

When he turns away, she doesn’t resume her task until he’s back in the cellblock. As he gets to the perch and removes his shoes, it’s his turn to stare. From the added height, he can’t see her face, only her hands as she filters through the clothes. 

Eventually he gets up and pulls his shirt off, replacing it with a cleaner one, something he’s found himself doing every night since she started sleeping beside him. 

Ten or so minutes pass before he hears her close the cell door and lock up behind herself. He counts each light step that carries her towards him until he feels her standing over the mattress he lies upon. 

With his eyes closed, Daryl can’t tell if she’s looking at him. He’s pretty sure she’s hovering the same way he had earlier, waiting for a signal. 

“You gonna lie down, or what?” 

He opens his eyes in time to see her smile.

“I’ll get my pillow.” 

He watches her go, and watches her come back a moment later and settle down next to him. She fiddles with the blankets, wrapping herself in one while she drapes the other over the both of them, causing him to waver when her arm lingers over him a moment too long. 

“Thanks,” he mutters when she pulls away. 

“You’re welcome.” 

They lie in silence, close but not touching once again. Though he knows he should sleep, he simply can’t. He’s suddenly wide awake, her mere presence filling him with energy until he’s practically buzzing. 

With it, comes the urge to speak, to prolong the moment before they ultimately fall asleep and have to part the next morning. That is until night comes around again and they fall into the same, _will she sleep on the perch, do I have to ask her_ pattern. 

Daryl doesn’t want that anymore. He’s tired of wanting that. 

“You should leave your pillow here, instead o’ gettin’ it each night.” 

She’s silent, and he has a sudden, lurching thought that she’s fallen asleep -- and then, “Are you asking me to move in with you?” 

He snorts much the way he did on the bus, and soon Carol is laughing and hell if that sound isn’t something he can get used to. 

She sobers after a while and Daryl feels even closer to her than before, and that comforts and terrifies him simultaneously. 

When she yawns, he figures she’s letting it drop, which explains how she catches him off guard with, “Thank you for getting me the blankets, by the way.” 

Daryl’s eyes flicker open, his lips twitching into a half grin. Being cornered isn’t so bad after all. 

“You’re welcome.” 

♦♦♦ 

Glenn’s rough shake forces Daryl’s eyes open a few hours later. He groans and closes them again, forgetting himself. It takes a few seconds for his mind to readjust and register the body curled behind him. 

When he opens his eyes again, Glenn’s gaze is a little too far over Daryl’s shoulder. 

“Alright, I’m awake,” comes out as a growl, and he sits up, shielding Carol from view. “Get outta here.” 

Glenn backs away, hands up in mock surrender, pausing once to let him know T-Dog is up after him. Only then does Daryl untangle himself from the cocoon of blankets Carol had wrapped them in. 

It’s cold now that he’s awake, yet he still tucks them in around her, not caring that - - 

“You’ll need those later.” 

“I thought you were asleep,” he says, pulling his hands away. 

Her eyes crack open, a twinkle of challenge within them. “I thought these blankets were supposed to be shared.” 

Instead of arguing, he changes direction. “Are you cold?” 

“No,” she replies. “Not anymore.” 

“Fine,” he grumbles, to her amusement, and leans back against the perch railings. He figures she will go back to sleep, yet even with her eyes closed he’s certain she doesn’t. He can’t seem to pull his eyes away, though, despite the fact she can open them again and catch him at any moment. 

The way she lies transfixes him, reminding him of all the mornings he's woken up, known she is there, yet physically not felt her. No hand against his back, or knee pressed to the back of his. Nothing. 

“Why’d you sleep like that?” he asks before he can stop himself. “Ain’t like ya gonna fall off the bed if ya spread out.” 

Carol props herself up on her elbow and watches him, contemplating her answer as though she knows _he_ knows the answer already. In a way, he supposes he does. Of course he does. What he doesn’t know is why – why he wants to hear something that will only make him angry.

And it does. 

“Old habits, I guess. Ed liked his space.” 

She shudders at whatever memory it elicited, and his anger heightens. Anger at the piece of shit for putting a claim on a woman he hadn’t deserved. Anger at the fact he still has that claim over her, despite being dead and buried…and anger at her for subconsciously putting him in the same category. 

The last part is indirect and weak – far weaker than the version he saves for Ed Peletier. 

“I ain’t nothin’ like him.” 

She doesn’t flinch at his aggression. It makes her expression soften and look at him the way she does from time to time, the kind of look that makes his body thrum with that damned energy. 

“I know,” she says, as though she’s thought the same thing all along. “So why do _you_ sleep the way you do? I wake up to the back of your head every morning.” 

His brow furrows; the answer to that at least is obvious. “Ain’t enough room to face ya.” 

 _Ain’t no way I’m facin’ ya, neither_ … 

“I could face the other way, if you’d rather,” she replies with a shrug, the simple motion masking the hints behind her comment. 

It’s funny, how quickly anger can evaporate into awkwardness. They both know that facing her is far more _intimate_ than her facing him, and it spooks him so much he can’t even seem to shrug it off. 

The problem with agreeing is he _wants_ to. He just doesn’t know how he’ll stop his hands doing what hers aren’t – because he knows undoubtedly that should he face her, he’ll reach out and curl himself around her. His body wants it; even if he knows he’ll never admit it out loud. 

“Goodnight, Daryl,” she says lightly, and he half expects her to turn and face the other way. 

She doesn’t, and he supposes it makes sense. She’ll get him, be it tomorrow, or the night after, but he can’t bring himself to regret the conversation because when he opens his eyes the next morning, there's something new. 

Her hand, resting between his shoulder blades.


	4. Day Five

**~ Day Five ~**  

When Rick asks him to head out, Daryl follows without question. They do a lap of the outer fences before heading to the guard tower to look out across the grounds. 

It gets dark as they discuss ways to strengthen the fences, their original entry point especially. They lay down some strong plans for the next few days, eager to make it more of a permanent and safer place to live. 

When the topic draws to a close, they remain on the balcony rather than heading straight in as Daryl first assumes. He’s pretty sure the rest of the group will have retired to their cells by now, and he’s almost looking forward to heading inside because he knows which bed Carol will have gone to. 

Yet he doesn’t leave. 

Over the past few months, he has grown to understand the kind of man Rick is. How he enjoys the almost solitude of one another’s company as much as Daryl does. 

That is until Rick breaks the silence, and Daryl wishes he took the chance to leave when he had it. 

“You and Carol seem to be getting on well,” he begins so conversationally it’s as if he’s just remarked on the weather. Daryl side eyes him, expecting to see a barely suppressed grin or something similar. 

“You say that like we ain’t before,” he replies, eyes narrowing. When the man actually smiles, his eyes narrow even more. 

“Well, things are a little different.” 

“ _Meanin’_?” 

“It’s nice,” he says, eliciting a snort from Daryl, who mutters the word back to him. “You could get a cell together…” 

Daryl thinks he may actually laugh if it isn’t for how uncomfortable he feels at the sudden one-eighty in their conversation. 

“We done here?” he asks, and ducks out without waiting for a response. He isn’t quick enough to miss Rick’s low chuckle, and _damn it_ , does he have to avoid Hershel _and_ Rick now? 

He does his best to steer clear of contact all the way back to the prison, at least until the man catches up when finding the right key takes longer than usual. 

“She don’t like ‘em,” Daryl says to break the awkward silence. 

“What?” 

“Carol. She don’t like the cells.” He pauses, biting his lip to stop a curse escaping. “Neither do I.”

“Me either,” Rick replies naturally, and Daryl blinks at him in surprise. He offers little else and holds up the correct key from his own set. 

Once the door is open, Rick walks off ahead, leaving him to close up and make his way over without an audience – to Carol, who is lying on his mattress, waiting. 

She’s facing forward, which relaxes him a little more. It’s not tonight; she’s not breaking away his boundaries by inviting him to face her as he sleeps. 

Her eyes are closed when he reaches her, but he feels someone watching him as he changes into a clean shirt, and he wonders if she isn’t just pretending, the way he did the night before. 

He tries not to think about Rick awake in the cell opposite, or any of the others who can look out and see them. It’s Carol he focuses on, which is dangerous in itself because when he slides under the blankets, a thought creeps up on him once again - - 

That he can get used to this, to Carol waiting for him at the end of the day.


	5. Day Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one for you. Thank you for all comments and kudos so far!

**~ Day Six ~**  

Having not taken first watch for two nights in a row, Daryl volunteers himself for the task. Carol joins him, sitting quietly at his side with her feet dangling over the edge of the perch. 

It reminds him of being on the run, when they had to watch every direction, rather than just the precaution they’re taking now. She used to wait up with him then, too. 

The first time she was designated watch duty, she asked him to sit with her, just in case. The following night, when it was his turn, she offered to do the same. After that, they never really stopped; that is until they got to the prison and it wasn’t necessary anymore. 

Daryl enjoys her company tonight, the privacy of it, despite having spent the day helping her clear out the yard. He allows the moment to lull him into a tranquil daze, the effects of which washing over Carol, who gradually leans closer until she’s propped against him, her head on his shoulder. 

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes. 

What he remembers next is Rick’s gentle nudge. 

“I’m glad we’ve got the two of you watching over us,” he says when Daryl squints at him through sleepy eyes. 

“Shit. M’sorry,” he manages to say, distracted by Carol who is just stirring. 

“It’s fine,” Rick replies with an easy smile, a huge contrast to the reaction they would’ve faced had they done this before the prison. “You two go ahead and get some rest. I got this.” 

Daryl nods his thanks as Rick makes his way by and down the stairs. He allows Carol a few minutes to settle first, only turning once he hears her stop moving. 

The sight of her halts him when he does. 

She’s facing the other way. An invitation – a _dare_ – to sleep the opposite way round for once. He’s aware the longer he stands there, the longer she knows he’s hesitating, so he sits on the mattress and kicks off his shoes. 

 _To hell with it all_ , he thinks, and lies down behind her.


	6. Day Seven - Part One

**~ Day Seven ~**

Part One

He wakes to the back of her head, the smell of that damn strawberry shampoo he found for her filling his senses. 

At the time, she’d asked him to bring back some girly stuff, the hell that even was, and joked that maybe he’ll notice the difference afterwards. 

Daryl allows himself a small smile. 

That is until he becomes fully aware of his own body and notices something else. 

His hand. 

On her hip. 

_How the hell did that happen_? 

Daryl slides his hand away as carefully as he can and leans back. He means to rise early the way he does every morning, to slip away and hope she hadn’t woken up while he was asleep. It’s only when he does a quick search for whoever is on watch that it hits him. 

There’s no one _on_ watch. Hell, it ain’t even early. 

Anxiety grips him when voices drift in from outside the cellblock. They’re _all_ awake. He’s slept through the whole thing. 

_How the hell did_ that _happen_? 

He attempts to shake off the sinking feeling and crawls out from under the covers, not knowing what to do next. Maybe he’ll go outside and take refuge in one of the guard towers…unless Rick corners him up there, or Carol searches him out to question his wandering hands. 

_Jesus_. What if she does? 

Daryl rushes down the perch steps, intent on the prison doors. 

Maybe he’ll hunt instead, or search for - - 

“Sleep well?” 

He damn near jumps out of his skin at Carl’s noticeably amused question, and glances to his right just in time to catch Beth giggle and nudge the boy playfully. Lori doesn’t look up, but he spots the growing smile on her face nonetheless. 

“Don’t tease him,” Beth adds. “I think it’s cute.” 

It takes all he has to walk away at a normal speed.

Rick’s on him the moment he steps outside. “Mornin’, Daryl.” 

Daryl nods once, refusing to make eye contact, despite feeling the man’s gaze on him. He decides against righting the scowl elicited by Beth’s _cute_ remark, hoping it’ll stop Rick from passing any comments of his own. 

Maybe it works, because the next thing Rick says is purely business. 

“Now that the yard is clear, we should start moving everything inside the prison. Leaving the cars by the gate draws too much attention. There’s space for them in the courtyard.” 

“We can bring some wood in, get those bodies burned,” Daryl adds, glad for the distraction. 

Rick agrees and wanders out to open the gates, leaving Daryl the task of telling the others. He meets T-Dog on the way in, and ignores the trio still having breakfast. He slows when he enters the cellblock, noticing the empty perch immediately. 

He takes the stairs a few at a time, heading towards her old cell where he hears her moving around. She doesn’t notice him at first, too focused on whatever it is she’s wrapping around her head. 

“You hurt or somethin’?”

She turns, chuckling at his obvious confusion. “It’s an accessory, Daryl. What do you think of it?” 

The corner of his thumb finds its way to his mouth. “S’fine. You looked fine before.” 

Carol beams as though he’s said something right for once. He keeps his hand firmly in place to stop a smile from escaping in return; sensing a response like that could lead dangerously close to mentioning last night’s sleeping arrangement. 

“Come on,” he finally says, signalling for her to make a move. “Rick’s gotta whole list o’ jobs to do.” 

Daryl gets to the end of the tier before she catches up with him. He walks ahead when he feels the others watching them, but quickly falls back into step with her as soon as they’re outside. 

“Sorry about putting you on the spot back there,” she says, bumping his shoulder. “A woman just needs a man’s opinion from time to time.” 

Daryl glances over, catching her grin. “So it’s compliments ya fishin’ for, then?” 

“Would you do it more often, if I said yes?” 

He meets her eye, gauging the challenge in them. “Maybe,” he adds, surprising himself at the ease of his response, not caring enough to regret it just yet. 

“Pretty romantic,” she replies lightly, and this time, he laughs right along with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know what happens next...


	7. Day Seven - Part Two

**~ Day Seven ~**

 Part Two

They are smiling at him. 

The first real smiles since it happened. He even feels his own mouth curving upwards, infected by the innocence of the small bundle currently feeding in his arms. 

She’s warm and alive and represents everything they’ve been fighting for.

Everything they thought they had only a few days before. 

Daryl doesn’t mean to let that thought slip through, but it creeps up on him when he least expects, opening his eyes to the things he’s doing his best to avoid. 

Suddenly all he can see is four empty spaces where  _they_  should be. 

The smile on his lips falters. 

They should be here.  _She_  should be here; smiling despite the heartache of losing friends,  _family_ …smiling at him the way she always did in moments like these. 

_Fuck_. 

Sorrow is swift and brutal when it comes. 

_What about T? Carol?_  

The words are so clear he glances at Hershel as though the man had just repeated them. 

_They didn’t make it_. 

He flinches. 

Like a crack in the hull of a ship, one small slip is all it takes to sink him. All of a sudden, he feels weaker, dizzy at the fact they are still watching him. He yearns for something to pull the attention away from him, yet doesn’t want to part with the one thing that can give him that. 

When Beth steps forward, he knows his time is up. 

He wants to say no, he wants to pull away and keep the little girl to himself. What else is there to focus on, otherwise? 

_Just one more minute_ , he thinks,  _give me time_ …because his jobs done now. He's completed what was required of him and now she is the only thing grounding him. The only barrier between avoidance and utter darkness. 

Beth still takes her, too intent on the child to notice the shift. 

As soon as she’s gone, Daryl takes a step back. 

The empty spaces crowd him as the others form a circle around Beth. The interest drifts away as she coos over the baby, and they focus on Oscar, who reminisces over the first time he held his daughter. 

Daryl’s ears are deaf to both, blinded to everything except the sudden, haunting image of what remained of T-Dog’s body. 

He manages to slip away to the cellblock without the others noticing, following the path to the stairs. The same path he walked two nights before, only this time he doesn’t find Carol at the end of it, waiting for him to lay down beside her. 

What he finds is something different, all the same. 

It’s the blankets he sees first, folded in a neat little pile upon his mattress. He must have missed them earlier when he searched her out, and then later during the ensuing chaos. 

His fingers ghost the material. 

They are tangible and there and she is not. 

He jerks away as though burned, and is pressed to the perch wall before he knows it. He grips the front of his shirt, fist again chest, trying to catch his breath. 

Daryl doesn’t remember feeling like this in almost a year, and before that, nearly thirty. 

There was nothing left of his mother, either. No body, no headscarf to wrap and bury in its place. No evidence she was even there. 

What does he have of Carol? Clothes? Shoes?  _No_. All he has is the pile of blankets to prove their last few nights together were real. 

Without her, there’s nothing stopping the darkness from suffocating him completely. 

The locking of the cell doors jolts him. Suddenly, Hershel, Maggie, Carl – the whole group are now in their cells, aside from Glenn who is closing up behind them. Whatever happened, Daryl missed it all. 

Now aware, he watches Glenn make his way up, feeling the weariness the younger man exudes. They haven’t had a hit like this since leaving the farm, and it’s draining them all. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Glenn says when he senses Daryl's presence. “Oscar said he’ll do a shift. You should get some rest.” 

Daryl can’t explain his sudden anger, or maybe he can, he just doesn’t want to think about the reason behind it. The memory behind it. 

He shakes his head once. The blankets are a little harder to avoid. His gaze flickers over them and he grits his teeth. 

“I got this.” 

“I don’t mind—” 

“I said I  _got this_.” 

“You should—” 

The sympathy in Glenn’s eyes pushes Daryl over the edge. He wonders what the Korean would do should he pick up his crossbow and aim it at his head, bolt loaded or not. 

Wonders how quickly he’ll back off then. 

“I ain’t gotta do  _nothin’_.” Then quieter, as Glenn finally turns away, “I got this.” 

He doesn’t see which cell Glenn goes to, if he goes to one at all. He doesn’t see much else for a good long while. 

The baby’s cry starts him next, when it’s much darker and deadly silent aside from the single point of origin. A few hours ago, he rushed to feed the little ass kicker, now her cries stand as a reminder of their loss – of the two mothers especially because Beth’s attempts to soothe her are inexperienced, even to his ears. 

He tries to pinpoint the noise, spotting Glenn at the far end of the tier as he does so. Keeping watch, despite his insistence he needn’t. 

Their gaze meets through the thick darkness, but Daryl physically turns away before the other can react. He doesn’t have the energy to argue with him anymore. 

His body craves sleep, yet his mind avoids it. He can’t sleep; he knows what he’ll see if he does. 

So he keeps his eyes open until he can do so no longer.


	8. Day Eight - Part One

**~ Day Eight ~**

Part One

Daryl wakes on his own accord, body jarred and aching from the awkward position. Death and loneliness were filling his dream, adding to the bone chilling coldness he feels at the heart of him. 

The cellblock is lighter now. Though barely dawn, it’s enough for the gloom to have lifted, even if not from his mind. 

A sweep of the tier tells him Rick has yet to return. 

Daryl’s aware of the fact he should go looking for him, but the thought of venturing into the tombs scares him. Just like Carol’s scarf discarded on the ground, he is scared of what he might find should he go looking. 

…and it isn’t just about Carol anymore. 

What if he finds Rick the way they had T-Dog, having met his end, lost in his grief-addled mind? 

What if the people across from him are all he has left?

Though he can hardly bear the thought of it, the quiet lull provides him with little else to think about. 

It’s movement that finally gets him up. Maggie’s awake, gentle rocking the baby outside her cell. He nods when she glances up to see him setting his crossbow over his shoulder. 

“Imma head out, look for Rick.” 

“Be careful,” she says after him. “He’s not himself right now.” 

Daryl’s aware of that, too. He doesn’t need reminding that Rick is in the darkest place of them all. 

It’s a good enough reason why he should go and look for him, just as he said he would…yet he still finds himself in the courtyard moments later, having come out the door Rick ran through in the first place. 

His heart beats a little quicker just being out here again. 

For just an instant, he feels what he did seconds after Carl alerted them to the walkers. 

Desperation, fear, urgency. They had coursed through him like blood through his veins. 

Those were the things to fuel Rick, to put a speed to his movements that neither he nor Glenn could match. For Daryl, it was a sensation he’d never experienced before. The desperation had him close to scaling the fences like a mad man and tearing across the field. 

Of course, it hadn’t happened that way. The gruelling lap of the outer fences had been their downfall, and T-Dog was left to close the gate alone. 

He turns one-eighty to look at it now. The walkers are still there, idly waiting for someone to come along…to set them free again. 

_We can get them later_ , Rick had said, only a few days before. They should’ve killed them when they had the chance, he realises that now. 

His knife is out in a matter of seconds. 

The first walker is effortless, the blade caving its decaying skull with ease. Then a second, a third, fourth…over and over until there’s a pile of bodies collecting at his feet. They’re getting louder, too, a deep, rumbling growl that builds as each one falls. 

It’s not long after that a woman in orange staggers out from behind the corner, her short grey hair drawing his gaze. 

_No_. 

His vision blurs as he reels back. 

It can’t be her. 

_It can’t be_. 

Daryl shakes his head, trying to clear the fog in his mind. 

It’s not her. It’s not. _But it still could be_ and the knife clatters at his feet. 

Only as he slumps to the ground does it dawn on him it’s suddenly quieter, dulled back to the low walker groans. 

It had been him all along. 

He blinks, disorientated, and looks down at his hand and the deep red groove from where the knife once sat. It’s surrounded by blood and gore that drips along his forearm. He feels it on his face, also, but has no energy left to wipe it away. 

Even the crossbow feels too heavy on his back. 

Maggie finds him like this a while later. She’s quiet in her assessment of his massacre. She doesn’t say anything at all as she retrieves his knife and cleans it with a rag from her pocket. 

When she pulls out another to wipe his face, however, he breaks the silence. 

Or more precisely, he jerks away from her outstretched hand, fixing her with a loaded glare. 

“Leave me _be_ ,” he snaps, close to knocking her hand away. “I can clean my own damn mess.” 

“Okay.” She nods, lacking her usual spark, and drops the rag in his lap. “Just don’t come back in looking like that. Carl thinks you’ve gone after Rick. I don’t want you scaring him.” 

Daryl thinks he agrees, but he can’t be sure. His attention is focused on the walker he mistook for Carol, who by now has trampled over the dead bodies to come and stand before him, snarling and clawing at the gate. 

Now he’s more lucid, the differences between the two are plain to see. This woman is a lot older, her clothes different to the ones Carol had worn. 

There’s still enough similarity, however, to leave him with a sick feeling in his stomach. The one that serves as a reminder that she’s still out there somewhere, in one form or another, waiting to be found. 

Daryl shakes his head again to dislodge the thoughts. 

The movement catches Maggie’s attention, and she looks between them, her gaze lingering on the walker. Of all people, he’s certain she’ll make the connection between Carol and the state she’s found him in now. 

He’s not sure whether to be comforted by the fact she’s his only witness, or ashamed that it has to be this she sees. 

In the end he chooses comfort, latching onto the level of understanding that had him opening up to her the day before, when she’d questioned him on the flower he’d pulled over to collect. 

“Did it help? All this?” 

_Did it_? 

Daryl looks at the walkers, assesses his current state of mind and the throbbing pain that’s spreading up his forearm. 

He thinks back to the sadness in Maggie’s voice, and the look on her face when she told him about Lori. 

Then he thinks about Rick, and the way he stormed into the cellblock with a single intention. 

Did it help? 

The hell it did. 

Maggie gets her answer from his silence, and finally leaves him. The prison doors slide back into place before Daryl musters the energy to get up. 

A number of walkers have regrouped at the fence, yet he singles out only one. The knife feels heavier than ever as he buries it between her eyes, then pulls back, watching the body fall. 

If it comes to it, he’s not so sure he’ll have the strength for the real thing.

♦♦♦ 

The water is cold against his face, but cleansing, both physically and mentally. It washes away the weariness, leaving his thoughts the clearest they’ve been all night. 

Today, he will make a difference. Be it with Rick, or Carl, or with any of the people he has grown to call family. But there’s something else he must do first. 

Reaching into his vest pocket, he touches the Cherokee rose, and then heads towards the three wooden crosses, silhouetted against the rising sun.


	9. Day Eight - Part Two

**~ Day Eight ~**

Part Two

His arms are burning, protesting against the weight they carry. 

Daryl pushes past it. He doesn’t care, not this time, because the pain means something. The pain is real, and so is she. 

Carol. _She’s alive_. 

He allows himself another glance, lingering longer than the time before. Her eyes are closed, and have been ever since he lifted her into his arms, having all but blacked out from exhaustion. He wants to call her name. He wants to get a response. 

And then he doesn’t need to. 

Her hand moves around his neck, fingers threading his hair as though to say, _I’m still here_. 

 _Still fighting_. 

Even after battling her way into the tombs, hiding only when her weapon was lost. She fought again to keep that door moving. 

But what if he hadn’t found her knife? What if he walked right passed, forgetting his promise to check on the way back? What if days went by before he was able to go back again, and something else was pushing against that door, instead? 

What then? 

 _You found her_ , he keeps reminding himself. _She’s still alive_. 

 _But what if_ … 

Daryl tightens his hold on her.

The cellblock is empty when he finally works his way back to the surface. It throws him, having expected them to crowd him the instant he appears. 

For a moment, he doesn’t quite know what to do.

Eventually, he has to set Carol on her feet to open the cell door, all the while keeping a firm arm around her waist to keep her upright. Although she still leans into him heavily, the light awakens her a little more. 

“Where is ev—” 

Daryl feels the precise moment the breath leaves her body, feels the sudden stomach dropping fear that their loss was far greater than she knew. 

“Daryl?” she whispers, searching for the truth she doesn’t want to find. 

“Come on,” he replies, dodging, keeping his eyes front and centre. “They’re probably just outside.” 

It isn’t a complete lie – Maggie and Glenn went on a run a while ago. The disappearance of the others could simply mean they’ve returned. 

He leads Carol towards the cell, not adding anything more. She knows about T-Dog; they all heard her anguished cry that day. It’s Lori he can’t tell her about. Not yet. Not until he has to. 

As for Rick, he doesn’t even know himself. The man may well have cleaned away all physical evidence, but he certainly isn’t the man he was only twenty-four hours before. 

Daryl gets to the quiet cellblock, leading her into one of the lower cells without hesitation. He helps her onto the bunk then rushes back out, going for the water bottle he keeps on the perch. 

Her hands tremble when she brings it to her lips shortly after he returns. He has to hold it in place to save the liquid spilling over. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly after replacing the cap. “You’d think I’d have a little more energy than this.” 

Something deep within him twinges, only getting worse when she closes her eyes and touches her forehead with the back of her hand. Within seconds, he’s copied her, feeling and hoping for the opposite of the searing heat that overwhelmed Jim back in Atlanta. 

Carol’s eyes shoot open at the touch, but for once, he pays no heed as he reaches for her arm. 

Her skin is no hotter than it should be, yet he turns her wrist, checking the blood that covers them. Checking it’s not hers. 

“I wasn’t bit.” 

 _What about scratches_? 

“Daryl.” 

Her voice is suddenly closer, and while her hand covering his stops the examination, the fear he’s trying to avoid hits him square on and seems to relocate straight to his expression. He can see it reflected in her eyes now. 

“I’m okay, I promise. You taught me well.” 

Daryl feels himself relax, but thoughts of the hours he spent training her are pushed aside by the sound of footsteps out the cell. 

It’s Beth, the baby in her arms. 

Daryl’s stomach drops all over again as he’s suddenly left with no way of avoiding the truth about Lori. 

Beth’s surprise at seeing Carol is overlapped by the gasp to his right. “Lori had the baby?” 

The happiness in her voice makes Daryl recoil. It’s the very reaction that tips the young girl off, and she’s practically backing away before he gives her a way out. 

“Go find Hershel.” He signals towards Ass Kicker. “I’ll take her.” 

 _I’ll tell her_. 

He half expects Carol to complain that she doesn’t need anyone else fussing over her, but of course, her attention is wholly on the baby now. 

Neither of them notices Beth slipping away. 

“She had a girl,” Carol says, a touch wistful. “What’s her name?” 

“Lil’ Ass Kicker.” Daryl grins despite himself. She’s certainly kicking his ass right now. “Ain’t that right, Sweetheart?” 

His comment elicits the exact smile he needed the night before. It’s the kind of moment he wants to freeze and stay within forever because what’s coming next will tear it all down again. 

“Ass Kicker? What does Lori think of that nickname?” 

He doesn’t know how to answer, how to break the news that her best friend died during childbirth. 

And then his silence does it for him. 

She doesn’t question him this time; the hand over her mouth prevents that. Daryl’s trapped once again, not knowing what to say or do. To comfort her is an option, but he already knows he can't. Ass Kicker is occupying both hands, leaving him helpless as he watches the tears slip from her eyes and track a path down her grimy cheek. 

“Who was it that-” 

“Maggie.” 

He knows much more. That it was Lori’s final wish, that watching her say goodbye to Carl was one of the hardest things Maggie has ever witnessed, that Carl was the one to end it. 

Daryl doesn’t say any of this, knowing heartache will be the only outcome.

“I thought about her, when I was trapped down there.” Carol wipes the tears away, smearing blood and dirt on her cheek. “About who would deliver the baby if I died, who would help her afterwards. And T-Dog – he…he scarified himself so I could get away. What if I died in that hole? He suffered needlessly, and I…I could have died anyway.” 

This time, Daryl cannot stop from shifting the child in his arms and reaching out to her. The gesture is awkward, yet he holds firm when she leans into him nevertheless. 

“But you didn’t. You fought to survive, and T made that possible. Ain’t nothin’ pointless about that.” 

Whether his words help or not, he can’t tell. What he does know is he owes T-Dog everything. Without his bravery, Daryl wouldn’t be sitting here with the baby in one arm and Carol in the other. 

Their loss could have been even greater. 

“I thought I imagined your voice,” she continues, eyes cast down to the baby. “I couldn’t believe you found me. I figured you’d think I was…” 

 _I did_ , he thinks, as the unspoken word hands between them. The lull stretches as though he has admitted the truth aloud, and he feels an apology rising for having dealt her sentence so hastily that day in the yard. 

There’s a telltale creak of the prison door, and all thought of apologising is dashed. Carol sits up, his arm slipping away now that their little bubble is about to burst. 

The familiar tap of crutches alerts them to Hershel’s approach, and he appears in the doorway shortly after. 

“You are a very welcomed surprise,” he says, but there’s something lacking in his smile, which confuses Daryl until the older man addresses him next. “Rick needs you. He found someone out by the fences. She was carrying formula.” 

 _Formula_. 

A scan of Hershel’s face is all he needs to confirm his suspicions. His worries. Maggie and Glenn haven’t returned after all. 

 _God_. They can’t take any more loss. 

 _They can’t_. 

Daryl nods once, returning the baby to Beth’s waiting arms. “I’ll find out what’s going on.” 

With one last glance at Carol, he exits the cell and heads towards what he already knows will change the group once again.


	10. Day Nine

**~ Day Nine ~**  

Daryl doesn’t remember the nights being this dark before. 

He’s keeping watch, but for what? He won’t see them coming, won’t hear them over the sound of Merle snoring in the backseat of the car they had broken into a few hours before. 

The car will protect them, he knows that, but his mind refuses to shut down enough to sleep because it isn’t the threat of walkers that keeps him awake. It never was. 

_I’m gonna do whatever I got to do to prove that my loyalty is to this town_. 

Daryl recoils at the memory, his body protesting, reminding him of the blows that followed those very words. He hadn’t fought back, not right away, because for a second there he actually believed it. 

Believed that Merle would kill him. 

_And yet_ , _you chose him over them_. 

But Merle’s _blood_ , he counters, as though the argument is strong enough to succeed a second time. 

_The same blood he made you spill_? 

A flinch jars him again, his busted cheek stinging. 

They’ll all know, by now. She’ll know that he’s with Merle. 

He tries to imagine her reaction to seeing the empty seats in the car, only to realise he doesn’t want to. He already knows what that feels like. Knows it all too well. So he wonders what Rick told her… if she really did understand after all. 

He needs her to understand why he made the choices he did, because it sure as hell won’t be anyone else… 

…and maybe she does. 

Maybe she tells them she understands. Maybe she believes it herself. 

But when nighttime creeps up on her, just as it has for him, and when the empty mattress is suddenly impossible to avoid, maybe then she realises she doesn’t understand at all. 

Because he doesn’t understand. Not anymore.

But he can’t go back, and he knows he can’t ask. 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support and response to this little fic!


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